


The History We Carry

by ChiefReef



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Action, Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefReef/pseuds/ChiefReef
Summary: A man from the White Leg people becomes embroiled in a protracted struggle for freedom, honor, and love across the Southwestern wastes. They must endure life on the Great Salt Lake in a warrior culture, the influence of a mysterious flag-bearer that changes their way of life, and the consequences of an 18 karat run of bad luck. They will bear the weight of their history and decide how to carry it into the future, how it will weigh on the future of all that is and could be Vegas.
Relationships: Male Courier/Salt-Upon-Wounds, Male Courier/Ulysses





	The History We Carry

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the second version of a story I've been dying to write about my White Leg Courier. I deleted the first version after talking with some indigenous writers and taking a step back to look at it all, I realized I had to start from the ground up to accomplish A) Righting the wrongs of Honest Hearts' racist writing and characterization, and B) Portraying the life of the White Legs as a community without making a caricature or sidelining actual indigenous tribes of the southwestern US. 
> 
> What I've done is base the White Legs primarily on Germanic tribes and I'll be doing my best to address and change for the better the way the game defines a "tribe" and what that really means. As such, there will be some talk on the nature of the Three Families and House's exploitation, as well as the more overt writing of Honest Hearts. I will be doing my best to tell a story that is compelling while addressing the flaws of the base game in a way that rights its wrongs, but if I fail to do so or fall short, please let me know! I want to create something meaningful and for me that means making sure I'm not making the same mistakes as the original writing, so feel free to comment or give feedback if you feel I've made a mistake or something needs fixing. 
> 
> Enjoy!! :)

"I'll be a lot less wound-up when we get to New Canaan. As weird as those guys are, they at least got high walls and a lot more ready guns than we got right now."

"It'd probably help if your armor wasn't boiling you. How you wear all that metal in this heat is beyond me, I'm sweating up a storm in this leather."

Two caravan guards talk casually as they walk on either side of a trio of brahmin wholly loaded up with goods to trade. It had been a long up from Mesquite, but the caravan was willing to brave the lengthy trip under the desert sun thanks to the generous pay being offered for a successful round trip to and from New Canaan. The two guards were more than happy to chat for the majority of the trip thus far, much to the chagrin of the stoic merchant. As the caravan lumbers steadily on, it eventually passes a large rectangular sign on the side of the road, beaten and worn down by centuries of wind and sand. The merchant makes a point to stop the brahmin to address the guards.

"You two, We're getting into Utah proper now. That means y'all can't be gabbing up a fucking storm like you've been doing the last twenty miles! The road ahead isn't the cakewalk Arizona is, you'll probably have to actually use those guns. Hopefully we'll be far enough from I-80 not to worry about any of those fuckers, but there'll still be plenty of other raider gangs and White Legs to worry about. Stay sharp, and stay quiet, we're picking up a pair of extra hands in Cedar City but we'll be on our own 'til then. Look alive."

The pair of guards shared a look and continued on silently as they readied their guns. The merchant let out a heavy sigh before readjusting their pack and leading the three brahmin across the old Arizona/Utah state line. The first few hours were tense as the landscape shifted from the brush and dry hills of Arizona into the rolling dunes and sprawling beds of sand of southwestern Utah. The sun had begun to make its downward descent into the latter half of the afternoon when the wind began to pick up. The merchant stopped and seemed to look around frantically while the wind started whipping up loose sand. The guards knitted their brows as they waved their guns around instinctively,

"What is it?! Are we under attack?!"

The merchant motioned at his stormchaser hat, pulling the goggles down as he motioned for the guards to do the same with their respective headgear. He spoke in a harsh, panicked whisper,

"Sandstorm! We have to hide, or hurry!"

The guards looked around as the storm began taking shape, after hours of walking there was nothing but flat expanse of sand on either side of the long road. No shelter in sight. The merchant began to hyperventilate, tugging at the brahmins' leads in an attempt to speed them up. His voice began to crack along with their formerly steeled resolve.

"This isn't happening, Jesus Christ, this isn't happening! Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!" 

Both guards furrow their brows before donning their helmets to shelter their eyes from the sand. They could understand the desire to get out of the storm, but the reaction of the merchant made it sound like they were worried about a lot more than sand. Before they could question them, the storm assumed its final form of blinding sand and howling wind that obscures everything but the brahmin and the vague outline of the panicked merchant. The wind blows against them, slowing them to a crawl in spite of the frantic heaving of the merchant tugging still at the brahmin in tow. The wind tears away anything but the sounds of itself as the caravan struggles to hurry headlong through this raging sandstorm.

The merchant tries to shout but their mouth quickly fills with sand, which prompts them to stop momentarily to keep from choking. In the moments that the caravan stands still, the brahmin begin to moo and turn away from the sand instinctively. The force of the three brahmin pulling in tandem brings the merchant to the ground, pain shooting up their arm as they hit the broken asphalt. For a few moments, the merchant scrambled trying to pull themselves back up by the ropes attached to the brahmin. The pain in their arm stops them and they fall down again, wincing as their breath begins to quicken again.

The guard in leather armor, seeing the silhouette of the merchant hit the ground and hearing the thud, moves to help them to their feet. They let their 9mm submachine gun come down to their side,

"Come on, up you go, keep going!"

They had to shout over the roaring wind before reaching down to take the merchant by the shoulder and lift them up. The merchant was in full hysterics as the sandstorm whirled around them, their head was turning from side to side frantically. In a jagged motion, they push the guard away and begin running as best they can in the high wind. It was difficult to say which direction they had come from, but the merchant didn't stop to triangulate anything, running wildly away from the caravan and the two hired guards. Abandoning their caravan, the merchant's silhouette could be seen bending to the wind before falling flat again. The guard in metal armor cursed beneath their helmet, raising a hand at the other guard and yelling,

"Don't worry, I'll get him!"

They braced themselves against the buffeting sand and walked toward the fallen merchant. It was a laborious dozen steps but eventually they could make out the shape of the merchant face down on the asphalt.

"Alright, calm the fuck down! IF you're gonna freak out, just lay right there and we'll wait this out!"

The guard shouted over the howling wind as they got closer. A few paces more and a narrow shape could be seen over the merchant. The guard rushed forward, the shape was clearly defined now. A throwing spear. It had found its mark in the merchant's back, the body beneath it unmoving. 

Confusion turned to a stomach twisting fear, their mind went immediately to the .44 revolver in their hand. They brandished the revolver at the empty air, the sand now concealing all manner of unseen nightmares for the unlucky guard. They turned back toward the direction of the caravan, running to make certain their friend knew the imminent danger they were now in. As the vague shape of the brahmin became more defined along with that of the leather-clad guard, they noticed the other shapes now barely discernible in the storm of sand and horrified adrenaline. The shapes moved like tricks of the light, the figments of a frightened mind, but there was a dead merchant who would vouch for the reality of the threat.

"He's dead! He's fucking dead! It's fucking tri-"

The guard in leather armor could see the rough outline of their friend running back without the merchant. They heard them yell something, but the wind picked up before he could make it out. Momentarily, they buried their head in the crook of their elbow to protect their face from the sudden rush of sand. They picked their head back up after the surge subsided and found no sign of their friend, no shape, no silhouette in the sand where there was one before. 

"Where'd you go? Just follow the sound of my voice!"

They began to scan the surrounding wall of wind and sand, trying to glean where they could have gone, they could swear they were only a few feet away before. After some tense moments, a quiet sigh of relief escaped the guard who now saw a silhouette stand up from behind one of the brahmin; They must have gotten knocked over by the gust of wind.

"See, I told you that metal armor's just gonna weigh you down out here, you really ought to ge-"

The guard didn't have the luxury of a few moments to ruminate on the fact that the silhouette lacked the telltale bulk and spikes of their friend's armor. Before they could finish their snarky comment and realize their error, the shape leapt over the brahmin between them and tackled them to the ground. Already dazed and confused by the sandstorm and the subsequent surprise of being pounced upon prevented them from stopping the now clearly defined man from pounding their spiked knuckles into their face. Blow after brutal blow came, caving in the poor guard's goggles and collapsing a part of the cheekbone that ought not be collapsed. It took less than a minute for the caravan guard to have all traces of life beaten out of them. 

Just a few minutes after the beatdown ended, the sandstorm subsided in tandem. On the side of the road, the scene had considerably changed. Where there were three caravaneers, there were now three blood spattered warriors collecting their spoils. The three brahmin were now being held by a warrior almost naked save for the loose hide pants, leather belt, and worn scarf hung about their neck. The warrior's name was Sigfried, and they wasted no time,

"Hans, Frieda, we've got what we need. Let's get back to camp, ja? Leave the bodies where they fell, the spear too. So close to the border, it will make a bold statement for any scouts coming up from the south. White Legs take no prisoners."


End file.
